


Flying Solo, In the Bathroom by Himself

by WildnessBecomesYou



Series: Music is Not the Food of Love, but the Messenger [20]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 80's frat party on homecoming weekend, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crack, M/M, Songfic, aka biggest party of the fall amirite, and sometimes crowley is a little oblivious to that, aziraphale does not do well with being ignored, he is a needy angel with anxiety, it's a frat party folks, rating for language and underage drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 20:50:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19411153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildnessBecomesYou/pseuds/WildnessBecomesYou
Summary: I'm waiting it out 'til it's time to leaveAnd picking at grout as I softly grieveI'm just Michael who you don't know, Michael flyin' solo, Michael in the bathroom by himselfAll by himselfCrowley takes Aziraphale to a frat party and leaves him alone. Aziraphale panics and retreats to the bathroom.(But it ends happily!)





	Flying Solo, In the Bathroom by Himself

**Author's Note:**

> WELCOME TO CRACK!SONGFIC TIME
> 
> The theme song of my last vacation somehow became Michael in the Bathroom from Be More Chill. It's literally one of two songs I've heard from the musical, but I listen to it a lot because of warm happy feelings (and it's a bop), and when I had the hilarious thought of Aziraphale singing it, I couldn't help but laugh. 
> 
> Enjoy the hilarity :)

Honestly, _fuck_ Crowley. 

Oh, that was rude! Aziraphale worried his hands, pacing in the small space. 

The small, tiled space. That smelled vaguely of pee and vaguely of acid (and not the fun kind). 

He wiped his hands on his jeans, which he’d really only put on because Crowley insisted that he could not wear his trousers to a frat party. 

_“Who wears a waistcoat to a party?! And calls it a waistcoat! Angel, you’ve got to at least wear jeans.”_

_“At least I’m wearing a shirt!”_

_Crowley grinned. “It’s a college party, an 80’s party. With lots of very drunk college kids. Why would I wear a shirt?”_

Aziraphale exhaled steadily and leaned against the wall. Then he thought better of it and straightened, wandered over to the sink and the mirror. 

It wasn’t like he didn’t look like he was twenty, but he also didn’t look like the rest of these people, and if he just miracled away no one would notice, he was kind of hogging the bathroom anyways— 

Another deep breath. He couldn’t leave the party, he was supposed to be here. Thwarting. Or something like that. 

But he would rather hog this bathroom, smelly and cramped and making him sweat, than pretend to use a phone he was clueless about— he’d rather be here than be the subject of a drunk sorority girl’s pity. 

And there were so many underage drinkers! 

He wished he could reverse Christ’s miracle. _Oh Lord,_ he heard Crowley tease in his (mind’s) ear, _turn this beer to water._

He’d been fine, if a little weirded out by this strange display of youth, when he’d been standing next to Crowley. When he and Crowley had been a pair, Crowley paying for Aziraphale, winking at the “bouncer” drinking some awful jungle concoction. When Crowley had his arm slung around Aziraphale’s shoulders, almost possessive— and almost enough to make Aziraphale forget about the gross misuse of suspenders in Crowley’s outfit. 

No, Crowley did not need glittery black suspenders. His breech-like, cow-patterned, blue-and-white pants (leggings?) did not need any help staying up. _Everyone_ could tell that. He also really didn’t need the disembodied collar, if one could call a mass of white leather fringe a collar. And when had Crowley gotten his ears pierced? 

The heavy eyeliner and poofed up mess of hair would have been enough, really. 

And then Crowley had spotted his objective, slid away from Aziraphale without a word, and the angel was alone. 

Oh, what had he done to deserve this? 

He stared at himself in the mirror. An angel. In the bathroom. At a party. 

How long had he been in here? 

Someone knocked on the door. “Sorry, occupied!” he called, turned on the faucet just enough to mimic someone…weakly peeing. 

“Eugh, my dude,” the knocker responded. Footsteps receded. Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief, his thumb landing in the spot between two tiles. 

He’d wait here until Crowley came looking for him. Should he turn the faucet on more? His thumb scraped between the tiles. 

How could Crowley just leave him? All alone! Crowley had just dumped him at the first sign of something better— after nearly 6,000 years! How much had they been through, and he was just going to throw that away because they were in _America_ , at a _Homecoming party?_

Aziraphale’s fingers tightened around the bowl of the sink. Oh, God, Crowley was going to find someone else. Someone just nerdy enough to be fun. Someone who would actually like going 90 in Central London. Someone who didn’t have to use a glamour to look like he was 21. 

“OOOOOHHHHH, I wanna dance with someboooooody!”

Aziraphale almost smiled at the drunken singing. It wasn’t good, but it was full of joy. He could almost hear Crowley laughing at—

Aziraphale’s stomach sank. Crowley wasn’t here. He wasn’t sitting on the closed toilet seat, elbows on his knees, practically cackling at the singer. Aziraphale was alone, in the bathroom of some college kid’s party. 

He felt a little nauseous. Maybe he shouldn’t have had two beers. It’s not like they’d given him any courage. 

He swallowed, watching his eyes redden. Oh, this was ridiculous! He was about to cry! 

Over a demon! 

He shook his head. He was sure— had to be, this had to be, surely— that people cried in bathrooms at parties. Hadn’t he seen it in some movie? 

Crowley had left him, at a party, which was really just perfect, considering who and what Crowley was. Leave an angel, a bookish angel, at a party, leave them stranded in _your_ environment, see if they can get out unscathed! 

He wiped furiously at his cheek, nearly cursing the tear that tried to roll down. He’d take a page from those movies— “oh, just something in my eye,” he said casually to himself. He didn’t believe it. 

What was the big thing? Oh, kids were doing— what did they call marijuana these days? 

_Weed!_ He could just say he’d been coughing because of weed! 

There was a knock on the door. Oh, oh no, he’d been in here too long. 

“I’ll be out soon!” he called again, feeling his heart speed up in panic. “One moment!” 

Crowley had left him alone, and it was awful, and he was here among practical teenagers, babies really compared to his ancient self, and everything was building up, his chest getting tight, and oh Lord in Heaven he should not have come along, how did he let Crowley convince him? 

He scooped some water in his hands, and before he could think any better of it, he threw it in his own face.

He sputtered, and he felt better. With another deep breath, he turned towards the door. 

No one was knocking. 

He was very alone. 

He wished he weren’t here. He wished, yearned really, that he were back in London, even twenty years ago, in the _actual_ 80’s, with Crowley in his bookshop, drinking wine instead of cheap and tasteless beer. 

He looked at himself again, using his sleeve to clean off the remaining drops of water.

He frowned. This was pathetic. He was such a sad excuse for an angel, unable to enjoy a fun environment. Heinous, he was a heinous excuse for an angel. That was the right word. 

He should have stayed home— watching some dull program, or even duller attempt at replicating sex on screen. Or, really, he should have never come to Earth in the first place, should have stayed at the Eastern Gate and watched as humanity inevitably fucked up! 

What must they think of him out there? He’d come to the party and said nothing to anyone— oh, did they think he was one of those weed-smokers? What were they called? Stoners! Did they think he was high? 

Oh, dear, they must think he couldn’t even drive, Crowley had driven! What must they be thinking? 

God, he’s such a loser! 

Yes, they’d all feel like they knew him somehow. They’d all come up to talk to him, but— _hey man, were you in bio 101 with me?_ only went so far. 

He’d barely been introduced to anyone! 

The knock started up again. “Awesome party,” he called as he strode over, flung open the door. 

Crowley stood there, eyebrows halfway up to his hairline. 

Aziraphale scowled. “ _So_ glad I came.” 

He pushed past the demon. “Azzy!” He kept walking, towards the front door. “Azzy, I’ve been— s’cuse me— I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” He finally caught Aziraphale’s elbow as he crossed into the front yard. 

“What do you want?” Aziraphale snapped. 

Crowley smiled gently, held up a cookie that was starting to fall over on itself. “Rose made cookies.” 

“Who’s she?” Aziraphale asked, now genuinely confused. 

Crowley rolled his eyes, slinging his arm around the angel’s shoulders, offering the cookie for a bite. Aziraphale took it, leaned in against the demon. “ _He_ is the host of this shindig. Nice guy. Good kisser.”

“Good ki—“ 

“CROW MAN!” Crowley looked away from Aziraphale, face changing from that wicked grin to an expression of confusion, searching for the voice. “Did you find your boyfriend?!” 

Crowley grinned again, squeezing his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Yeah, I found ‘em,” he called back. Aziraphale blushed slightly. “Good cookie?” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale admitted. “Tastes homemade. With love.”

“ ‘Cause it is,” Crowley said, bonking his head on Aziraphale’s. “Rose just made them. Traded a coupl’a kisses for a coupl’a cookies.” 

Aziraphale let himself smile. 

Maybe not fuck Crowley.

**Author's Note:**

> L. Rose, my dude, if you're reading this, I miss you and your phenomenal Frat Party Cookies. Old Bay Forever.


End file.
